


Pavlov(e)

by GMakesFanfiction



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Love, M/M, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27550930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMakesFanfiction/pseuds/GMakesFanfiction
Summary: Patrick is f##king struggling.Pete tries to pavlov him out of it.In the end, they both learn that's not how things work.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Pavlov(e)

**Author's Note:**

> TW- mention of SH,ED, possibly other triggering topics

Patrick never wanted things to end up this way. He never fucking wanted any of this: the fame, the pressure, the underlying feeling that nobody fucking cares about him. It seemed that he was just a shadow compared to the other members of the band, taking on the backstage light despite being the lead vocalist. He hated the way the cameras made his skin glow when performing. He hated the way his voice would crack and stumble when the crowd was too large for comfort. He hated the way he looked, hiding behind hats and jackets and anything to cover up the disgrace buried away under his façade. He hated all of it.

Now, he wasn't ungrateful- He had always dreamed to perform music, let alone perform with his best friends for thousands of people. It's just, after a certain point, behind all of the lights and interviews and success, there lies a hole. Not a literal hole, obviously, but one of the mind. He knew rationally that he had almost everything he's ever wanted, and yet there was still an empty feeling left to boil inside of him. The easiest thing to compare it to is that pit you get in your stomach after a relationship ends, the kind that never really goes away and just... lingers for months on end. It's manageable, sure, and if he tries hard enough he can tell himself that it's all better now, or that he has a purpose in this feeble fucking life. But that doesn't close the hole. Nothing he's tried yet has been able to close the emptiness, and as every day passes he loses faith that he'll ever feel full again.

Over the past few years, he has tried to keep himself alfoat on the sinking ship of his mind through a variety of equally ineffective ways, self-medicating with whatever it was possible for him to clasp his grip onto at that point in time. First it was the drinking, then drugs, then codependency, then food, and then the razor. The food, arguably, was the worst coping mechanism he's had so far. At least with the drugs nobody could see it splayed across his body what he'd done. With the codependency, he didn't stand out like a sore fucking thumb in comparison to everyone else. With the binging, it was laid out for all to see on his skin and on the scale. He just wants to forget. To go back in time and hit the past version of himself for making all of these mistakes and turning him into an obscene fucking monster. 

He hated himself, and yet he didn't even have the energy to change. 

Until he did.

It was a warm summer day in Chicago, one that brought Patrick nostalgia from his days growing up in the suburbs. He missed those times, when it was so easy to just be young and not have a care in the world about wether you were going to fucking kill yourself or not. The band had about a three day break from shows at their hometown to do interviews, photoshoots, and other god awful money-grabs. Today was an album release shoot, which Patrick dreaded for over days leading up to it. Luckily, because Pete was the unofficial frontman of their band, he was probably going to be the attention-grabber of the shoot, standing in dead center like he always does. Through his show-stopping persona, Patrick knows that deep down inside Pete has a hole too. He's witnessed him fall through the traps of overdose and relapse multiple times, only to become manic and fuck away the pain with what seemed to be a new girl (or guy) every other night on tour. On one hand, it made Patrick jealous. Patrick saw Pete as something beautifully frail, like a glass sculpture formed by the Gods. There was not a wasteful inch on him, everything is perfectly placed and fits together in the most cold yet welcoming way. Patrick thought to himself that if he hadn't been a fucking pig for the past two years to get over a broken heart, there was a chance he could have resembled Pete's fragile, sharp beauty. Of course, that chance even excluding these past two years wasn't exactly high. Patrick was never really the type to appear sickly beautiful; He hated himself for this, but in reality he was sunshine in skin, a cool day between fall and winter where you hold steaming hot chocolate in your hands to keep them warm. He was your childhood teddy bear. He was everything inviting and soft and inherently beautiful. 

Except obviously, he was completely unaware of this. He never noticed the moments where Pete would sneak a look at his red-tinted eyes and think to himself how stunning Patrick is. What he chose to pay attention to instead was everything that was wrong with him. He would stare at himself for hours in the mirror before photoshoots like this, dissecting every single flaw he noticed with a blade, a surgeon ripping out his own tumors with a damaged scalpel. Of course, he kept this completely hidden, and made a rule to himself as to not place any cuts past the chest or wrists- he was meticulous, which in the end made this photoshoot far worse in practice.

When the time came, Patrick was given a pair of clothes to change into throughout the shoot. He looked through it, pretty typical outfits for Fall out boy- the classic shirt-with-a-jacket combo, a button-up long sleeve shirt for what looked to be a more formal shot, and then what appeared to be some kind of swimwear. That terrified him, and for good reason. 'What the fuck?' he thought to himself out of a mix of confusion and denial- he's always been very adamant about keeping the band's musical and artistic integrity, and generally staying away from the concept of sex appeal. 'Now Pete's a fucking swimsuit model'. Patrick sighed, reminding himself that it was likely just his jealousy regarding Pete that lead him to act like a dick. He carelessly threw the first t-shirt over his head, and felt a sharp sting as he pulled it down past his stomach, where the majority of his fresher wounds were. Composing himself, he put on the most oversized jacket he could find to put on, and stepped out of the cramped bathroom stall. All the other members of the band opted to change in the bathroom too, but little did Patrick know they somehow got the intention to change completely in the middle of the bathroom instead of in the stalls like he did. He was fine with it, honestly. Good for them, but he was not going to risk anyone, especially Pete, seeing his disproportionate form that he so desperately tried to hide. The scars wouldn't be great for him to see, either.

"Alright! are you guys pumped up or what?" Joe said to nobody in particular, with no immediate response. At least Patrick didn't seem to be the only one out of it today. 

"I mean, sure." Patrick trailed off, trying desperately to make the situation comical. "I'm not fuckin' ready for Pete to have that shirtless photoshoot though, amirite? Can't control myself."He made a gesture that one could only describe as what a horny 17 year old looks like after getting it on with their prom date- that kind of stupid loss of innocence with a sly motive behind it. Pete laughed it off, thank God. Patrick wasn't really sure wether what he just spat out was truly a joke or not. He ignored it.

"Well- jokes on you, loser!" Pete said in a loving yet mischievous way, "you realize i'm not gonna be the only one who's half naked dude... right?" He winked, and looked Patrick up and down slowly with a candid intent of admiration, imagining what he looked like under the seventeen fucking hoodies he wears. Let's just say Pete... didn't mind what he was imagining.

Patrick, on the other hand, froze in his tracks. Holy fucking shit. He literally could not expose himself like this in front of his bandmates, in front of everyone. He felt his stomach drop, and he couldn't process anything. It was all too fucking overwhelming. 

He held it together, faked a smile and followed his three friends into the shooting room. Fortunate for Patrick, he realized about five minutes into the session that the majority of the shoot focused on (you guessed it) Pete Wentz. Which on one hand was great for him, as being shoved in the back was Patrick's only known comfort zone. Patrick, however, couldn't distract himself from the stupid, immature, dumb-fucking idea that deep down, he wished he could be in the spotlight. He knows it's not made for people like him, and he's accepted that, but some arrogant, jealous part of him wants to be the one who gets loved. Patrick has never been the one in the band to get love letters from fans, even kisses from some extra eager ones. He's never really known the feeling of making someone freeze upon seeing him purely because of awe and admiration, the feeling that he's only ever seen radiating from girls' faces as they swarmed towards Pete after shows. Then again, Patrick just wasn't made for the spotlight, he told himself.

Patrick spent the rest of the shoot looking at the ground, pretending to be tired, or bored, or literally anything besides anxious as fuck. From what he could gather, he was doing a pretty good job at not letting anyone know how stressed he was about the fact his worst secrets may be exposed in the next 45 minutes. He began to contemplate excuses to leave the shoot and hide back in the hotel they were staying at; 'Maybe I could say I'm feeling sick? No... that's too risky considering that I'm a singer. Dammit. Maybe if I just fake an asthma attack they'll let me go rest, or something. No, that's a really stupid fucking idea. Maybe if I-' Patrick's thought process was cut off by the voice of one of the photographers, finishing up her time with Pete.

"Okay guys, we need all of you at once for this one. Can you guys go change into your third outfits?"

Patrick's heart dropped to the fucking floor.

Following his bandmates, he ran into the bathroom, with no intention of changing into the swimwear he was given. The moment that Pete and Andy entered into the bathroom, they immediately ripped off their shirts and joked around like they were models, strutting up and down the open space. Joe took his top off slowly and pretended to pole dance humorously on one of the building's support beams, which provoked a hearty laugh from Pete and Andy. This made Patrick extremely uncomfortable, and unfortunately even more self-conscious about his body. Candidly, Pete, upon seeing joe dance in a suggestive way, even as a joke, had his mind wander to (you guessed it) Patrick, and just how fucking sexy he would look doing tha-

Patrick quickly exited the bathroom as soon as Everyone was done undressing. 

"Trick! bro, where are you going?" Joe called in an effeminate and juvenile manner.

"I just... I'm gonna go get some water, or something. I'll be right back." Patrick mumbled, closing the door behind him. He walked back to the shooting room and decided to pull one of the photographers aside. She was the one who had worked with Pete most recently, and her name-tag read 'Chelsea- Lead costume rep.' . She was a short, mousy woman with curly blue hair: probably fresh out of art school, but not necessarily mean-looking. Thank god.

"Hey, uh... Chelsea, is it?"

"Yeah?" she answered in a surprisingly sweet and comforting voice "what's up hun? You're not dressed for the next shot."

"well, I have a bit of a... problem."

"okay," she said, glancing Patrick up and down with kind eyes,"what's wrong, sugar?"

Patrick didn't say anything at first, and just gestured up and down his body with a tint of shame. "I'm not exactly... made for these types of shoots." Chelsea nodded with understanding upon seeing his cheeks darken with shame. "Is there any way that I can wear a shirt for this, or just not be included?"

She nodded and smiled warmly, her coffee-cream skin glistening against the industrial lighting. "Of course, sweetheart, follow me. I'll get you all fixed up." She said in a warm tone, walking towards what looked to be a large clothes rack overflowing with pants and dresses and whatever else one would need in a multi-scene photoshoot. Chelsea's presence, in a strange way, both intimidated and comforted Patrick. She didn't ask questions, didn't judge him or call him a fat fuck like his band probably would upon hearing this, she was just, there. It was nice. She circled the crammed rack once or twice until she stumbled upon what looked like a swimwear section.

"What size, hun?" she asked, glancing in Patrick's direction. He mouthed it, without having the fucking courage to even say the letter out loud. Everybody was probably fucking staring at him anyway.

"Alright!" she said reassuringly. "Black, white, or gray? You know that, gray would match your skin tone best" she decided, handing Patrick the gray swim-shirt in his size. 

"thank you, so much." Patrick said, power-walking towards the bathroom in order to change.

"you're welcome, sugar."

Upon getting into the empty bathroom, purely out of habit, Patrick locked himself into a stall and changed out of his clothes into his swim shirt and shorts. He prayed that some of the fresher cuts around his arms wouldn't bleed through in the lighter-coloured shirt. Stepping out of the stall, he looked at himself for a moment in the large mirror. Needless to say, he did not like what he saw. The already unflattering outfit drew attention to everything that Patrick hated about himself: His scrawny fucking arms, his chubby stomach and legs, and, worst of all, it left around one to two inches of skin on his wrist exposed. Granted, there weren't that many visible marks that he wouldn't be able to explain away as an accident, or perhaps an on-stage incident. "This is going to be fine.", Patrick whispered to an empty room, as a means of trying to reassure himself. If he was not running behind on time, it was likely that he would spend many more minutes self-criticizing in the mirror. But nonetheless, he was about 7 minutes late to the shoot already, so it would be too inconvenient for the other members of the band if he took any longer.

Patrick made his way back to the room where the photoshoot was held, and was greeted by his bandmates in a bit of a strange manner.

"Hey dude! What took you so long?" Andy asked in his classic high-pitched voice.

"oh, I-" 

"Bro, we've been waiting for like fifteen minutes," Joe interrupted, mocking Patrick for his seemingly slow entrance.

Patrick sighed and got into place, hiding himself behind Pete. Pete snuck a look at Patrick in between photos, desperately wishing that he was in fact not wearing such a covering outfit. He, of course, interpreted this as a look of disgust at his figure shown somewhat through the shirt. He composed himself. Deep breaths, slow breaths now. It's all gonna be over soon. He repeated those phrases in his head for the entirety of the shoot, until it came to a (much awaited) end. The other boys in the band eagerly ran back to the bathroom in order to change. Patrick stayed back for a moment, and walked towards Chelsea, who was in charge of photographing this scene.

"Hey, do you mind if I, see one of the photos?" Patrick said quietly, hovering over Chelsea's laptop.

"I mean, I'm not really supposed to 'cause they're not edited yet, but sure." she said, winking and putting her finger against her lips as if she were telling a secret.

Patrick, to say lightly, did not like these photos. He already knew that the fucking outfit looked bad, but this? Even with the swim shirt on, his entire body was visible. The material clung to him in the worst possible way, over-exaggerating ever single flaw on his body. His eyes looked red and swollen from his emotions, which made his already-discoloured face appear rounder and far too saturated. The most unattractive thing about the photos was the fact that Andy, Joe, and worst of all, Pete were in them, contrasting Patrick. Pete was built like a fucking greek god, and Joe and Andy had flat fucking stomachs and chiseled muscle definition. Patrick's eyes began to well with tears that he desperately tried to hold in.

"Thanks!" he said, faking a smile to Chelsea and walking away as fast as he could. 

The minute he entered the bathroom, he locked himself tightly in a stall as a means of privacy. Then came the tears. So many fucking tears, and for what? Everything that was wrong with his body was because of him. He wasn't stupid, he knew that he wasn't as thin or pretty as Pete but Holy shit.

Patrick waited in the stall until he heard what he thought to be all of the band exiting through the door. The good thing thing about his horrible mindset was that at least he's learned to cry in silence without provoking the queries of anyone. Once he determined that the coast was clear, he actually allowed himself to make quiet whimpers as he cried, collapsing onto the floor. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't fucking live in this body anymore. After spending a few moments intensely crying on the bathroom floor, Patrick was out of tears. However, his mind was nowhere near empty of emotions and thoughts of self-hatred. Getting up onto his knees, Patrick became even more aware of his stomach folding under his oversized shirt. He despised it. Despite there still being fresh cuts there, he grabbed at the fat of his stomach, trying to rip it all off because he clearly couldn't cut it out. He just wanted to be fucking skinny and fucking attractive and fucking loved and he just can't fucking do anything and-

He felt sick. The awful kind of sick, like the plague of the mind. Well, more like whatever the equivalent is for wanting to fucking disappear and turn into someone else. Still resting on his knees, facing the wall toilet and wall, Patrick had a very bad, yet very effective idea.


End file.
